The Daughters of the Good King
by AranellAeariel
Summary: Aragorn and Arwen produce not only an heir, but three daughters as well. When the introverted, withdrawn Princess Aeariel encounters the Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, she begins to crave more than the comfort she has taken in her books. (Existing daughters given names and faces, rated M for later chapters.)
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I do not own Tolkien's universe. Any names and locations you recognize are not owned by me. This is the prologue to a "much needed" story about the daughters of Aragorn and Arwen that were not fully described. Later characters will include several members of the Fellowship from the original Trilogy.

Prologue

I, Aeariel, daughter of the King Aragorn and the Queen Arwen, be neither elf nor human, but some blissful purgatory of a minute eternity to spend my days. Not the prince my mother doted upon, nor to be the king my father would be succeeded by, I lazily spent my days wandering the glimmering alabaster halls of the palace at Gondor. The immediate heir to my father's throne was not lusted after, for that would mean the Good King Aragorn would die, else he should make my sibling Eldarion is co-regent.

For years, my life was a mystery to my gaggle of sisters, my mother, even. And while she was loving and perpetually young, I resented her polite distance from me. My brother was the object of her eternal love, a projection of the love she had for my father. I was a daughter, a failed attempt at another flourishing leaf to my father's tree, one that would keep him thriving long after his imminent death.

I bided my days in the cavernous libraries of my home, my mind lost to wander the worlds of old created by the bound, yellowed pages of my father's books of warfare, and my mother's Elvish books of lore. My mind was able to unsheathe my sword to fight alongside my father during his infamous battles, turning quickly when my mind was bored to the silver falls of Rivendell, where the sunlight would paint my cheeks and the dusk contour my spirit. I was a traveler of many lands, although I never had left the sanctuary of the palace. While the dusk and dawn fought and fell each night, for years I roamed like a moth from lands unknown to dreams unspoken.

It was not until my later years that the yearning for true ventures nagged at the edges of my mind. That insatiable craving was aroused when a former companion of my father had entered, gracing our halls with his presence. Never before had I truly longed to abandon the luxuries of home, dismiss the routine lifestyle that would cheerily await me every morning. Or at least I hadn't until our acquaintance was met and tales of wonders fed to my young ears. It was then I hungered for more than words on aged paper could provide me….


	2. Chapter 1 - Siuad

Author's Note: I do not own Tolkien's universe. Any names and locations you recognize are not owned by me. A thoroughly long chapter to introduce the situation and characters. Enjoy and please, leave feedback!

Terms Used:

Siuad – an informal greeting

Na vendui – At last!

Aranell – Princess

Nányë – I am (My name is…)

Mae l'ovannen – "You are well met"

"Siuad"

My eldest sister, Anira, was chatting idly with an unknown prince when I had passed the threshold of the great hall. He faced away from me as my sibling emphatically spoke of some drabbling tale. As I approached, my ears detected the gentle lull of elvish speech, and a grin leapt to my cheeks. While my mother rarely spoke as such to my father, my siblings and I had merely learned it as a courtesy. Through my readings, I had come to learn the language easily. It was a lullaby; it was soothing to hear, echoing like a song against the marble of the palace hall.

My advances caught the eyes of my sister, as she tossed a beam in my direction, introducing my presence to the Prince of Mirkwood. When the young elf turned around, I was astonished by his complex, sharp features – a pair of blue eyes analyzed my visage, and a maddening blush crept over my body. Typically, my personality dictated a cool air of confidence, often mistaken for arrogance, it seemed, so what was it about this elf that made me lose that demeanor I had maintained for so long?

"_Siuad_," I offered, suddenly frightfully aware of my disheveled appearance. My simple, tan tunic was nothing of regale, my hair, messy and unbraided, hung limply over my shoulders. An icy fear also poisoned my veins as I realized my informal blunder. This fear, however, dissipated to some degree as the prince smiled, a pleasant sight, responding in Sindarin. His quick, kind retort caught me off guard, as I had not expected such a respectful response when I myself had not provided one.

"_Na vendui, Aranell Aeariel_." His baritone voice rumbled soothingly, placating the spiteful red tint to my atypically pale face. "_Nányë Legolas_." Offering his name aided some, for I had heard stories of my father's, which often called reference to Legolas. Why had he not introduced himself as a prince, when I myself was called by him "Princess"? Perhaps the title was too burdensome for the elf. Perhaps in the hallowed halls of Gondor's palace, the only prince was my brother, the only king my father. Perhaps he merely omitted the word to save time speaking to me. If the latter were the case, why was there an abhorrently apparent thrill in his greeting?

"_Mae l'ovannen_." My voice felt shaken, a fearful vibrato overcoming my collected intonation. My succinct response offered little respite, for the company of the room remained solely between my sister, the prince, and myself. The intimate troupe I had found myself thrust into seemed anxiously joyful, which confounded me greatly.

I knew Anira would speak as much as she could, being the most talkative of all of Aragorn's daughters. While she had a husband, the son of a Rivendell elf, flirtatiousness still buzzed about her. Perhaps it was the declination of her chin as she chattered, dotingly grazing the hands of her company as she spoke words of fervor and merriment. Something seductive was about her as she told not only great tales of old, but even when she spoke to a handmaiden of which dress she had chosen for the day, as if it bewitched her, or she had bewitched it, to make her appear even more beautiful than the day before. Her earthy hair danced around her similar to a deep river as she struck up another conversation with the visiting prince. Something animated in her seemed to ensnare him as his responses flowed forth effortlessly. His gaze was lost to her eyes, a green caught between a fair brown and the deepest of emeralds. My mother said it was the same shade of green as the leaves that had previously flourished in her home.

As I stood, fingers anxiously tapping against my palm, I heard the prince remark the color with muted ardor. While his dialect thickened, I still drew out the compliment he had provided her – telling her that her eyes were of the Mirkwood, a lovely, rich green. Upon my internal translation, I felt a scorch in not only my cheeks, but my chest. I was certain he was not aware of the extent of my fluency, considering my bumbling greeting from the prior instance, but I withdrew, having gathered he too was under the spell of my sister. Dwarves, elves, men, and hobbits alike were all caught in her wicked spell, entranced by the unknowing enchantress. She had now claimed another victim.

From even my earliest years, I knew I was not as pretty as my sisters. Anira had an insurmountable beauty, her dark hair and charmingly green eyes, the smile that resembled an archer's bow, lips painted a petal pink from birth; they all were her tools and weapons. Her eyes were not large, but shaped pleasingly ovular, as it appeared some cosmetic graced her, when none had. Her timid curls grazed her back in the moments she danced from room to room, silent waterfalls behind an angelic face. My second sister, Narylfiel, was a flame. Her wild, deep hair framed her narrow face and shielded her large, illuminant eyes, whose pigment rivaled Anira's. Her subtle curves were often hidden beneath ruby fabrics, heavy, lustrous, beautiful, as she was. Her husband was man, an irony my father and mother both appreciated. He had been bewitched, as many were, by her rouge lips, naturally beautiful, it seemed.

I, on the other hand, was far from those lovely creatures I called my sisters. I bore little resemblance to either, save for the shades of green that littered my eyes. Their physiques were frail, while mine were the curves of a dwarf woman, merely stretched to fit the height of an elven girl. My hair, a hue too dark to be my mother's or my father's, curled devilishly, a tangled mess that surrounded my face as a mane. My lips were pale, plain, usually hidden behind my raking teeth, a habit my mother had a particular distaste for. My fingers were not silken, as my sisters' were; they were withered, stained black by the raiding of pages from the massive library I resided within. While Anira flaunted the supple curve of her breasts with dresses that dipped low, like birds that kiss the lakes, my dresses shielded me from sight. They were shapeless sheaths of lilacs, lavenders, and browns, with sleeves that were tattered and battered from the climbing of ladders and stairs to reach a book that was just out of my finger's length. My wraps often were misshapen from the coveting of another read I had discovered, a precious gem.

As my mind unwound the ponderous comparisons I made between my sisters and myself, the gilded doors to the great hall opened as a large mouth did, procuring my father - illustrious, glowing, even in his age, my mother, who was hooked on his velvet elbow, and my remaining siblings in procession. Upon the grand entrance, the expression on Legolas' face shifted. His attention was torn away from Anira and unto my father. A smile I had seen him reveal to my sister stained his lips as he drew nearer the king.

"Aragorn, dear friend!" the Mirkwood prince greeted cheerily, embracing my father warmly. My mother released the king's arm to watch the two interact as such. Her smile was graceful, chasing away the shadows I had felt in my heart a moment before.

"_Rodel_ _Arwen_," Legolas bowed his head lightly to my queen mother. His sight was next on my brother, the eldest of us, who stood near as high as my father, and the bright expression of his face took the place of the neutral. I could see, from my sentinel position beside a grand table, his eyes wash over the sight of the boy that had once been nothing more than a speck clambering about the vastness of the palatial home, now grown, resembling the gorgeous blend of both father and mother.

"You are grown," He noted delightedly, giving my brother an embrace that mirrored the one granted to my father just moments before. Never had Eldarion mentioned knowing the Mirkwood prince before, and it astounded me when my brother reciprocated the affection without so much as batting an eye. The warm greetings had now passed, and the tired nostalgia set in between my father and the ageless Prince. It seemed now that Legolas was going through the line of people that had just assaulted his vision, as next he greeted my sister with calm, slow Sindarin.

"_Le_ _suilon_." he purred to Narylfiel, arousing from her a delighted smile. His lips dusted lightly over her knuckles, drawing forth from her a brilliantly blossoming blush on her wintery cheeks. I was glad to see the shade that seemed to haunt her step vanish, if even for one spellbinding moment. Her timid, mousy responses vanished, and a lascivious woman emerged, although still entirely bashfully blushing as if he were the first suitor come to call. A chime of jealousy was struck within me, although I could not place the reasoning. Was it merely because both of my beauteous sisters were married with husbands, while I, the forgotten child, was unmarried? Or was it because both had received the affections of the handsome visitor within our home? I knew not the reason, and wanted very little to discover the answer.

My father swept out an arm, gesturing for the guest to be seated at one any of the myriad of cushioned chairs that littered the room. With a faint nod and a ghost of a smile, the elf graciously sat. My father took seat across from him, descending alarmingly sluggishly into the chair below him. My mother's willowy arms gripped his, aiding him in his plight. With a soft grunt, my father adjusted his position, finally relaxing with a disarming smile flourishing on his lips. As he sat, he offered light conversation to our welcomed visitor. I had expected their idle chatter to be of wars and heroes, but the domestic conversation had led to an acute disappointment, but within a mere blink, that stinging emotion was morphed bitterly into encompassing horror.

"I trust you've made acquaintance with my daughter, Aeariel," King Aragorn reflected. His opaque eyes, encircled with age, hope, and sorrow, met my own, and I could see a fleeting joy within them. His sight whipped back to the young guest before him as he summoned me close with a crooked finger. "She used to read of you in my memoirs, in our library." A chuckle boomed forth from my father, and my head bowed with some alien shame.

"Then I am certain she has read nothing of interest!" Legolas made light reply, permitting me a secretive grin as he did. That very grin haunted me that night, even as I ascended the looming staircase to my chamber and washed clean the day at the basin before turning to bed. His words played as melodies in my ears. A longing settled over me as the wraps of my bed did, and my mind reeled giddily. My father had extended an invitation to the elven prince to take refuge from his travels in the palace, and upon his acceptance, a beam stormed across my features.

As a silence veiled my room, fingers of milky moonlight shepherded me into dream. While darkness veiled the palace, my dreams were painted with the image of a blond elf…


	3. Chapter 2 - Daylight's Truth

Author's Note: I do not own Tolkien's universe. Any names and locations you recognize are not owned by me. I realized after publishing my first chapter that I wrote in a Quenya phrase as Sindarin, which was my error! Now it starts to be less background and more about Aeariel and Legolas interacting. Thank you so much for review(s) and follows and favourite(s)! It means so much to me!

Daylight's Truth

The first strains of pure morning light roused me from a restless sleep – although it was not entirely miserable. I was stirred with some wholly alien notion, something akin to infatuation kept my heart at a steady crescendo until the first hours of the morning. My dreams were riddled with his visage. Every waning moment of night kept a soaring hope in me that I was merely one breath closer to encountering him again. I chastised myself at the girlish giddiness, although I could not rid myself of it entirely. It had poisoned me with its blissful insanity, and I could not allow it to relent.

When I had finally acquiesced to the morning's dull hum, soreness claimed the tender flesh of my body. Sitting erect, I felt the teeth of pain clamping down, leading me to emit a muffled whine. I knew not why this sensation taunted me so, but I dismissed it with the best of my will as I rose from the last touch of sleep.

Disrobing myself of my night sheath, I spent several fleeting moments carefully gazing at my likeness in the silver mirror before me. I scrutinized my shape through narrowed eyes, little more than emerald slits. I inquired bitterly of myself why I did not possess the same willowy shape as my elder sisters, nor the lush beauty of my mother. Why also, I pondered, had out guest prince paid so little mind of me, and spent his affections on both of my wedded sisters?

The flame that engulfed my chest was assuaged, ever so faintly, by the remembrance of the covert grin he had permitted me. It was something so sinful – yet, it was entirely beauteous. The demure mischief in his eyes spoke some informant volume – he did not loathe me, as I had originally considered. I believe it to be the hue in his eyes that had enchanted me, ensnared me, devoured my sanity and left me to wallow in my wounds.

With a sigh, leaden and ponderous, I begrudgingly garbed myself in a viridescent, gauzy shift, turning my deep jade cincture around my waist deftly. While my sisters employed the help of meek handmaidens to robe themselves, I found some distaste in that, and even from my youngest years, I insisted upon clothing myself. While my attire was never as ostentatious as the ensembles my sisters displayed, still, I politely declined my mother's constant supplication of chambermaids.

Hastily exiting my room, I persisted on keeping my eyes inspecting only the light as it painted the ivory floor. My mind ruminated on the different scenarios in which I could be at the prince's disposal as I strode down the endless hall, barely detecting the wide steps that rapidly approached.

Within a blinding instance, I had met harsh collision with the one who had bedeviled my every thought. Fearfully, I elevated my gaze to the countenance of our lodger.

"_Goheno nin, aranell_…" He pardoned breathily, his slate eyes expanding. His remorse sanctioned the minutest fraction of satisfaction within me. I smiled dulcetly, giving a moderate chortle.

My fluid response provided him forgiveness for a blunder that was entirely my own. His enflamed cheeks became pallid once more, and he offered his company to my destination.

"I fear I go nowhere of interest," I mumbled, suddenly deflating, losing the coquettish ruse I had adopted, "I merely go to our hall of books."

It was a sanctuary to me, eternally my home, if nowhere else was. The senescent pages felt as cloth beneath my trifling fingers, edges tawny and rented. The tomes were my truest companions, steadfast and honest.

"I have heard it is quite tremendous. I should very much like to see it." He riposted with a broad smirk. His cool rejoin astounded me – did this mean he had longed for my company? The very question tumbled through my mind, the answer swimming before my eyes. Legolas and myself walked abreast, our formalities displayed by the distance between our pacing legs.

The young _ernil_ spoke little until the doors to the library loomed before us. Pressing my palm to the cool port, the door swung open with no trepidation, no moaning creaks – but instead with a gasp of air, stupefied by the blond visitant. I was powerless but to behold in the scores of treatise that encompassed the room. While it was commonplace for me, I could detect in Legolas' eyes the awestruck astonishment.

"It has been my home for many years…" I explained languidly, fingers fondly kissing the faces of the volumes that had guided me for most of my existence. The room was virgin to most all visitors, for I was the only one who went in or came out.

"It is grander than I had thought…" He noted, a faint tug on the edges of his lips was detected. His eyes analyzed the room, decidedly with a sense of wonder.

"It houses far more lives than any village." I offered demurely. This was no lie. Each anthology detailed the lives of a dizzying amount of creatures, some elven, some man, some dwarf, some even hobbit. I felt something akin to motherhood as I read, each name was one of my children, and I would be their guard until their tales were finished.

"Where do these come from?" He pried gently. His question caused me to simper, some young memory sending me reeling with recollection and a distant exuberance.

"They are my mother's, they are my father's, they are discarded gifts to my sisters, some wedding, some of their coming of age, some gifts from faceless suitors. They are my brother's, for he has no desire to read their passages, they are found and exchanged…" I could not recall the origin of many of the titles, but I knew them all so intimately, it mattered little where they came from.

"Might I see the ones you are most fond of?" He requested, tender voice infecting me. His inquiry caught me off guard, for I had not expected him to take such vehement interest in my pastimes. It was a difficult question, indeed, but standing agape as I did not assist in procuring an answer any more rapidly.

Choking on my ghosted words, I tapped a tapered finger on the leather cover of a newer story, ascertaining my preference with silence and wide eyes. I informed him in hurried Sindarin that this was a book of lore that had once been my mother's, that it had been my childhood companion.

Taking an emboldened step towards me, his hand too rested atop the aged face, beside mine the same way he and I had been walking before. His response was flaxen, hypnotic, beautiful.

"Perhaps we could discuss such literature in the future." He proposed, expression tender. I had once wandered into a hall in the East Wing of the palace, lost with hopeless abandon. His steel-blue eyes sent that nostalgia flooding back to me, overwhelming me, nearly drawing me to my knees as I felt myself more and more submitted to him.

"Perhaps." I retorted succinctly, terrified I would permit myself far too many words to him. My hair kissed my back and shoulders as I turned on my bare heels. My glance fell over my shoulder as I gave my parting words. "I expect I shall see you this evening, _cund _Legolas." I murmured coyly, fixating my eyes on the path before me now as I managed to pry myself from his sight. I had never displayed such icy ire before, nor had I barricaded myself from my true emotions as such. I held myself to be entirely realistic, but I was no fool. Love was present, as I could see between my Queen mother and my father, but silly girl's enamored fantasies left a bitter taste on my tongue.

His rumbling offer echoed as a soft melody in my head, staining my cheeks a rouge until supper that very evening.


End file.
